


Scars

by archdemonblood



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: DA2 spoilers, Gen, Harm to Anders, Pro-Templar, Trauma, post DA2 / pre-DAI
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-17 00:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9295451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archdemonblood/pseuds/archdemonblood
Summary: Cullen Rutherrford, now the acting Knight-Commander of Kirkwall, struggles to hold the city and the Gallows together after the Chantry attack, and deals with his own trauma on top of it.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Anders is dead. You've been warned.

_Long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. The Amell eyes. Over the last six years, he had learned to swallow the lump he got in his throats every time he looked into those eyes, but still, it appeared. Darling or demon? Savior or Strategen? Trust no one._

_So hungry. So thirsty._

_The screams of the Enchanters echoed down the stairwell as they turned. Good mages. Powerful mages, who had passed their Harrowings and always seemed to be good people._

_How long had he been down here? Days? Months?_

_Still his stomach turned every time an Abomination walked by._

_There was a body in the corner of the room. A sloth demon wanted to eat it. It didn’t make sense. Edmond had been a good Templar; better than Cullen, and more experienced too. Why had he died? Why had he given in?_

_Burning bright blue eyes. Not Solona Amell. Not Marian Hawke, either. Meredith Stannard, reaching out with an iron clad to pull Cullen from his prison. He reached for her--_

\--And woke up. 

Cullen hated the Knight-Commander’s quarters. They were too small and only had one window, and worst of all, they were _hers_. He’d changed the blankets and thrown out all of her things, but it was still _her_ bed and _her_ wardrobe, and even though these things had been here long before her and had always been destined to be here long after her, for Cullen they would forever stink of her. 

Cullen couldn’t breathe in this room, for so many reasons. He’d have rather slept anywhere else in the Gallows, including the darkest cell, but to do so would put everyone else on edge, and Cullen’s most important and most difficult job right now was to give off the impression that everything was going to be fine, even if he himself didn’t believe it.

He got out of bed, lit a single candle, and pulled his armor on with shaking hands. It was a good time to patrol the Gallows. It was a good time to do anything that would give him an excuse to leave this room. 

Cullen shivered as he blew out the candle. 

This entire place was haunted. Not for the first time in the three weeks since the destruction of the Chantry, Cullen wondered if he shouldn’t just tear it down. It would be a month before the Chantry got its boots on to go to the meeting where they would vote on whether or not they should take a vote on who might replace Grand Cleric Elthina, let alone any of her Revered Mothers, and in the meantime, Cullen was the highest-ranking Chantry official in Kirkwall. That meant that Cullen was currently responsible for the efforts to rebuild the Chantry, as well as the managing of what remained of the Gallows. The former needed to be his top priority, and he had no illusions about the fact that it would be the Chantry’s top priority when they finally got involved. 

The Loyalist mages had elected to stay. Cullen was pretty sure that made them better people than he was, because not a moment had gone by in the last three weeks that Cullen’s every instinct hadn’t been screaming at him to run, and not stop until he was back in Honnleath, with its thatched roofs and it’s bad weather and that family that _technically_ wasn’t apostates because the First Enchanter of Kinloch Hold had owed King Maric a favor thirty-five years ago, and nothing to worry about but the possibility of that golem coming to life and killing him, and he hadn’t had that nightmare since he was fourteen. Cullen would be able to _breathe_ back in Honnleath. 

But he didn’t run to Honnleath. He walked, at a normal pace, out into the hallway.

Loyalist mages were easy charges. Most Templars dreamed of having a Circle full of them; they did as they were told, they seldom complained, and they reported suspicious activity. That second point had been a blessing, lately. With the Chantry blown up and the Gallows market shut down, they didn’t have money. Cullen didn’t think that the mages in his care had really understood what that _meant_ until they’d been presented with a scant dinner of barley bread and fish for the fifth time last week. Cullen had banned the use of candles for all but the most essential purposes, as well, meaning that the mages had to hold their lessons in the courtyards, in the damp and the cold, in order to give their apprentices enough light to write by. 

They were supplied for a population much larger than they were, but the fact remained that when their supplies ran out--which was bound to happen, and Cullen suspected that it would happen sooner than they expected despite his restrictions--they could not afford more. With no sign of help on the way, they had to be frugal with what they had. Cullen was working for food and lodgings, as were a number of his men. The money they had had to be saved for those who needed it. Cullen’s family would still eat without him sending coin home. Others were not so fortunate.

Cullen had Templars in the city every day, not to hunt for mages but to fill the role that the priests might have, if it weren’t their tragedy the city was grieving for. The Templars were all there was of the Chantry in Kirkwall, and it wasn’t enough. They weren’t trained for this. But they had to try. Cullen had enough on his plate most days just directing Templars and trying to round up funds and workers to rebuild the Chantry, brick by brick if they had to. 

So Cullen could write to Ostwick, to Markham, to Ansburg, and to Hasmal. Those Circles were small, which is why it had fallen to Kirkwall to absorb Starkhaven mages after the destruction of their Circle, but they were _there_. And Kinloch. Cullen knew all too well that Kinloch had empty beds. He’d heard that Greagoir had died. Who did that leave in charge? Hadley? Hadley was a reasonable man... 

It would be asking a lot. Cullen knew that. Circles were generally unhappy to take in transfer mages in the best of circumstances; they came with piles of paperwork, and you had to make space for them, both physically in the dormitories and professionally among the other Enchanters or Apprentices. Cullen needed them to do that _and pay for the transportation of those mages_ , a serious breach of tradition. Starkhaven’s Chantry had paid for the relocation of the Starkhaven mages to Kirkwall, but Kirkwall had no Chantry. There was nothing Cullen could do but throw himself on the goodwill of other Circles and beg them to do what he could not. 

Still. He had to try. It wasn’t to anyone’s benefit to keep these mages here. He’d discuss it with them, and do his best to accommodate their needs and desires. Scattering them to the winds with no thought for their comfort or academic needs would be a poor way to repay them for their loyalty, even if they wouldn’t complain. Along that line, though it was Cullen’s right to make this decision unilaterally, if the mages truly wanted to stay in Kirkwall in particular rather than any Circle--which Cullen doubted--he’d listen to them. 

Cullen wasn’t even sure _which_ mage he should approach about it. The most senior of the mages remaining was Senior Enchanter Norman, but he was elderly and tired, and his memory issues were getting worse. Most decisions were being made by a young Starkhavenite named Sylvia, who was only three years out of her Harrowing. She had no real authority to make any decisions, but she seemed to be the only one who had taken it upon herself to do so. 

She’d make an admirable First Enchanter, someday. 

Frantic rowing was an unusual and strange sound, but there was no mistaking it when you heard it. Cullen turned back the way he came and moved toward the sound of the sloshing water, arriving in the entrance courtyard just in time to meet Ser Harrison as his boat hit the dock. There was something large in Harrison’s arms that Cullen couldn’t make out.

“I need a healer now,” Harrison said. “And light.” Cullen could hear whatever or whomever was in Harrison’s arms mewling weakly.

“Follow me.” Without question, Cullen led Harrison to The only spirit healer left in the Gallows was Lowell, and elf who was about Cullen’s age. All of the remaining mages had moved cells to be as near to each other as possible, and Cullen didn’t lock them in at night. The Gallows themselves were locked and they were in the middle of the ocean. That seemed to Cullen to be more than enough to keep people who wanted to be there from escaping. 

“Lowell!” Cullen called as they entered the hallway where the mages slept. 

There were several grunts. 

“Lowell, wake up,” Cullen said. “And someone give us some light, please.” 

Two of the mages conjured small fireballs that lingered harmlessly above their hands, illuminating the hallway. 

Lowell sat up and pulled off the silk scarf he wore over his hair at night, and blinked at the approaching Templars. 

Cullen turned and got a proper look at the thing in Harrison’s arms for the first time. 

It was a little girl of maybe ten years old. There was a knife in her gut, and blood all over her clothes and Harrison’s armor. 

Lowell took a deep breath. “Get her on a bed,” he said. He looked around and realized that all nearby cells were occupied. “Just put her on mine. Quick. How long has she been like this?” 

“A while,” Harrison said, laying her out on the bed as instructed. “As long as it took me to get the mob off her and carry her over here from Lowtown.” 

“What happened?” Cullen and Lowell asked almost in unison. 

Harrison sighed. “She did a magic trick for her friends and the wrong people saw. Wanted to send a clear message that...” Harrison stopped. He shot a nervous glance at Cullen, and then shook his head. “She’s just a kid.” 

“She’ll be alright,” Lowell said, pulling the dagger out and healing the wound as soon as it began to spurt blood. “This’ll leave a nasty scar, but I can save her.” 

Everyone in the hallway relaxed considerably at hearing those words, Cullen included, but his relief was short lived. Harrison caught his eyes pointedly and nodded for Cullen to follow him into a more private area. They moved back toward the Templar barracks, confident that Lowell could do his work just fine without them hovering. 

“Knight-Cap... Commander,” Harrison said. Cullen wasn’t upset by the mistake. “I’m worried.” 

There were a dozen ways Cullen would have liked to answer that. ‘There’s nothing to be worried about,’ would have been nice, if only it had been honest. ‘Join the club,’ on the other hand, was a bit too bleak. ‘Hi, worried, I’m Knight-Commander,’ would have been too light-hearted for the situation, and almost might have felt like a jab at a perfectly honest mistake. 

“What’s your concern?” Cullen said. 

Harrison sighed. “They damn near killed that girl for making a flower grow. The people out in the city want blood. I’m not saying Meredith was right, but she wasn’t wrong about _that_.” 

“We’re not giving them blood,” Cullen said. “Since when are the Templars led by angry mobs?” 

“Nor do I think we should!” Harrison said. “But what _are_ we going to do?” 

“There’s little more we can do,” Cullen said. “The highest justice has been served. The apostate responsible for the attack is _dead_ , and the people know that!” Cullen had seen to the burning of the apostate’s body personally, in a very public spectacle. “Try as we might to make up for what they lack, keeping order is the Guard’s job, not ours.”

“The City Guard has no captain, ser.” 

Cullen was getting a headache. “I know,” he said. “She fled with the Champion. I was _there_. Her husband seems to be under the impression that she’ll return, when the Champion is safe. We can only hope so.”

“In the meantime, the Guard is leaderless.” 

“And so is the city,” Cullen said. “So no one has the authority to appoint a new Captain, interim or permanent.” 

“They understand as well as anyone that you’re the highest ranking official in the city,” Harrison said. “Talk to them about getting some kind of leadership structure to hold them over until the Captain gets back. It couldn’t _hurt_.” 

Cullen nodded stiffly. “You’re right,” he said. He was struck, suddenly, by the fact that Harrison was nearly twice his age, and answering to him. Cullen wasn’t sure how it was that he’d ended up here. It felt like he’d been stumbling around in the dark and sheer luck had not only kept him alive, but made him powerful. Better Templars than Cullen had died in Kinloch hold. Better Templars than Cullen hadn’t lived to see Meredith’s reign ended. “I’ll go up to the Keep in the morning and have a talk with them about how they can create an interim leadership structure that will best serve the city.” He felt like he was stringing sentences together the way a child builds a cabin out of blocks from his toy chest. You looked at the ready-made chunks and if it fit, you dropped it there. Cullen _would_ go to Viscount’s Keep in the morning, but he was doubtful that it would accomplish anything. Meredith had won them little goodwill with the Guards over the last three years. 

With that decided, Cullen and Harrison walked back over to the mages. The little girl was out of Lowell’s cell and in with Charlotte, an elderly mage woman. Charlotte held the child like a grandmother might, stroking her hair while she cried. The sniffles echoed around the large hallway. 

“She’ll be alright,” Lowell assured Cullen and Harrison. “But she’s still in some pain, and she’s had a bad scare.” 

“Tonight might not be the best time to make her phylactery?” Slyvia suggested from her seat on her own bed. 

Cullen hadn’t even been thinking about that. “Of course not,” he agreed. Meredith had been firm about phylacteries being made as soon as possible, but Cullen didn’t think anyone here was in the mood, and it hardly seemed likely that a child would run away from the people who’d saved her, steal a boat, and try to sail home. 

Everyone would feel a little bit better when the sun came up. Cullen hoped so, at least. Since the mages seemed to have their new charge taken care of, Harrison went back out to patrol the streets, and Cullen returned to Meredith’s room-- _his_ room--to try to get some sleep. 

There was an envelope on his nightstand. Cullen hadn’t opened it yet, and didn’t see any point in doing so while it was too dark to read, but he was already mentally drafing a reply to the letter he had not yet read:

_“Dear Mia,_

_I’m not dead. Sorry. Been busy. City destroyed by Abomination._

_My love to everyone,  
Cullen.”_

Something like that, anyway. He’d write it and send it off tomorrow. One more thing to do. He found himself composing a To Do List in his head: 

[ ] reply to letter from sister  
[ ] make phylactory for new mage  
[ ] send Templars to lead prayer groups and console grieving citizens  
[ ] beg Hightown residents for money they don’t have  
[ ] talk to City Guard about leadership structure  
[ ] write other Circles with request to take mages  
[ ] put down anti-mage riots  
[ ] rebuild the Chantry  
[ ] pray for a Viscount to fall out of the sky

... Simple stuff like that. Cullen led such an uneventful life, these days. It was a wonder Mia wanted to read about it. 

Cullen got back into the bed, closed his eyes, and tried with all his might to pretend that he was somewhere else: In his old room at Honnleath, with Branson sleeping soundly in the bunk below. If Cullen tried, he could almost hear the deep breaths of a slumbering eleven-year-old brother.

Branson would be twenty-five next month. The last family birthday that Cullen had actually made it to was Branson’s 17th. 

No. Don’t dwell on that. Cullen had wanted this more than anything, and he’d left with his family’s blessing. He was doing the Maker’s work. Let that thought carry him back to sleep.

If it did, it couldn’t have been for more than an hour. It was still dark when a banging on the door pulled Cullen out of a far more pleasant dream than his first one. 

“Knight-Commander!” Ser Rosalind’s voice. She’d been on patrol here in the Gallows. What could possibly have gotten out of Rosalind’s control with a crowd of Loyalists and their apprentices? 

He pulled on his trousers and answered the door topless.

“Knight-Commander,” Rosalind said, “there’s an angry mob at the gates.” 

That was as utterly unsurprising as it was frustrating, at this point. 

“At the gate?” Cullen asked, surprised by his own ability to sound authoritative. “Right now?” 

“Right now, ser.” 

Then there wasn’t time to put on his armor. Cullen threw on a shirt and a coat and marched out to the gate with his sword and his shield and nothing else. 

Halfway to the gate, he started hearing the chanting: “Right-of-Annulment! Right-of-Annulment! Right-of-Annulment!” 

“ _Shut up_!” Cullen yelled when he was in sight of the gate. 

He probably should have gone with ‘silence’ or something a bit more authoritative, but now that he was outside, he could see maybe a single sliver of sunlight, and he had a headache that could put a man in his grave. He hadn’t thought it through. You live and learn. 

 

It worked, anyway. That Maker-forsaken chanting stopped. 

Cullen gazed at the crowd and tried to fix his face into some kind of ‘I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed,’ look, but the reality was that he _was_ mad. “What in the Void are you trying to accomplish?” 

“Those bastards blew up our Chantry!” Someone from the front yelled. A few people hesitantly agreed, and then it broke into a chorus. 

“ _The mages in these Gallows_ ,” Cullen said sharply, getting the crowd’s attention again, “are faithful Andrastian’s like yourselves. The apostate who destroyed our Chantry is dead. You all know that. So what? You’ll take innocent life in exchange for innocent life? And then the mages can retaliate, and you can retaliate again, and it will go on and on until there’s nothing left of this city but a smouldering heap and we’re all rotting in the Void?!” 

No one answered him, this time. 

Cullen reached over and unlocked the gate. “There,” he said. “It’s unlocked. Open it, and I will kill you.” 

The crowd dissipated, slowly at first, and then very quickly, until there were only three men left standing there. Their leader stared in Cullen’s eyes as the sun came up ray by ray. 

“Get. Out,” Cullen said. “Get out of my Gallows, and never let me see your faces again.” 

They turned and left, calling for the last boat back to wait for them. 

Cullen relocked the gate. 

Well, that was one item crossed off today’s To Do List.


End file.
